


the boys time can't capture

by illuminatedcities, the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, Controlling Behavior, Glory Hole, Harold is a creeper, M/M, Phone Sex, Possessive Behavior, Possessiveness, Public Sex, Sex Toys, Unsafe Sex, Voyeurism, d/s dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 09:43:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6324319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities, https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's raspy voice sounds after a minute or two. "New to this? Need instructions?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	the boys time can't capture

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "The Kids Aren't Alright" by Fall Out Boy.

_The empty roll of toilet paper on the floor still has pathetic white scraps of paper clinging to it. John nudges it with his foot, watching it roll away to the side of the bathroom stall. Grand Central Terminal is busy, but the public restroom is safely tucked away behind a corner: a good location for some very specific indulgences._

_It's been a busy week, with John trying to get back into working the numbers and Harold watching him with his mouth pressed into a firm line, like he expected John to snap any second. At night, John can still feel the scratchy prison blanket covering him, the weight of the bomb vest pressing against his chest. What's worse, underneath it all there is the touch of Harold's hands, muted by layers of fabric, Harold's fingers unbuttoning John's shirt._

_The door creaks, announcing a visitor. John leans his head back against the tile. He waits for the footsteps to approach: surely, at first, then they slowing down, probably checking under the doors of the other stalls on the way. John tries not to think about the night on the rooftop, the bite of the air sharp like shrapnel, his skin numb from the cold._

_Somebody enters the stall next to his and the lock on the door snaps shut. There are messages on the wall written in black sharpie, a dozen different kinds of handwriting, obscene drawings. Through the thin wall next to him, John can hear someone breathing over the rustling of clothes, the metal sound of a zipper being undone. John slides to his knees on the floor. It's cold through the fabric of his pants, but he doesn't mind. There isn't much that he minds anymore._

_“Hey,“ a voice says on the other side, and that is new. Usually, these encounters go down without a word being spoken. “I've never done this before,“ the man says._

_John lets his head sink against the wall between them, next to the hole in the wall that has even more obscene drawings centered around it. Trust him to meet an amateur on a day like this. “It's pretty straightforward,“ John says._

_The man on the other end chuckles nervously. “So, like, I just...“ He trails off._

_John sighs. “Yeah, you just put your dick through that hole. Easy as pie.“ There's some more rustling to be heard, and then, finally, the guy seems to get the message. He is hard, and his cock isn't that bad, at least, thick and uncircumcised. John closes his mouth around the tip and there's a bang from the other side, like something hitting the wall. John rolls his eyes even though nobody is there to see._

_“Fuck, so good,“ the guy says, with feeling._

_John considers pulling off and asking him if he's okay, but that would defeat the purpose of the exercise, probably. Instead, he relaxes his throat and swallows him down deeper, and is rewarded with a moan from the other side. That actually makes his own cock stir in his pants. John shifts a little where he is kneeling, gives himself the smallest bit of friction against the fabric of his underwear._

_Then the door creaks again, and John listens as new footsteps approach. John stays where he is. A sharp intake of breath comes from the other side. One of the stalls is opened, closed, and locked, followed by the sounds of someone urinating. The guy on the other side pushes closer against the wall, his cock sliding further down John's throat. Apparently he's getting the hang of it, now. John draws back a little to lick the thick vein on the underside, circle the head with the tip of his tongue. It takes him a moment to pin down the new sound he hears: it's someone clawing at the wall with their fingernails. Well, at least the guy recognizes a good blow job when he gets one. There's the sound of running water over by the basins, then the door falls shut again._

_“Oh god, fuck, don't stop,“ the guy on the other side groans. John has no intention of doing that._

_He has the wetness of precome on his tongue soon enough, and moving his head a little up and down while hollowing his cheeks is followed by a loud whine: the guy he's blowing is apparently too gone to care how much noise he makes._

_“Fuck, I'm –“ John pulls off and moves to the side. It's not the he minds the taste, or the swallowing itself: it's just that John's charity today only extends so far. Thanks to his reflexes, his suit is only left with a small stain that he wipes off with some toilet paper. He'll have it dry cleaned before wearing it around the library again. Certainly he won't have it sent to whatever cleaning service Harold uses._

_“Christ,“ the guy pants, slowly pulling back._

_John sits down on the floor with his back against the wall. He's hard, his cock straining against his zipper. He considers jerking off right there, but he feels cold and exhausted already, he might as well go back to his apartment. The orgasm is not the point, anyway, he could get that while jerking off in the comfort of his own home: stretched out on his bed, the sheets bunched up around his legs, leaning against the smooth, cold tile of his shower. This is about something else entirely, from the shaky breath on the other side of the partition to the low, needy moans John coaxes from these strange men. Their desire is proof of his existence, and in an isolation as complete as his own, John is ready to reach for the flimsiest connection._

_“Hey, should I, uhm.“ The guy on the other side clears his throat. “Should I do you?“ He asks, too quickly. “In return, I mean, should I – “_

_"I'm good, have a nice day,“ John says. He's getting a headache. It's a nice gesture though, he has to admit._

_"Well, okay. You're really. You know what you're doing, man, can I – do you have a phone number or something?“_

_"Have a nice day,“ John says, a little louder. The lock slides open, and footsteps move away from him. Then there's the sound of the door, a momentary burst of sound and activity, and John is alone again._

–-

Counter to what some might think, Harold has better things to do with his time than spy on John. Even so, sometimes John's data has... irregularities, and those catch Harold's eye. For example, there is the fact that John spent an inordinate amount of time in a specific public men's room. Admittedly, there are mundane explanations for this that Harold would rather not linger on: but John seems to visit the Grand Central Terminal, enter the bathroom right away, stay for a while, and go home. Perhaps he meets an informant there. Harold is curious, and justifiably paranoid.

When he next sees the green dot marking John's location advancing that way, he turns on the audio, listening in. There's not much at first. The drone of a crowd, the creak and swish of an opening door, the flat sound of it closing. A rustle of fabric, and silence. The hiss of a zipper coming undone makes Harold think he may have mistaken simple biological function for an event of interest. He blushes, and is about to give John some privacy when he hears someone moan, "Fuck, so good."

That is not something Harold associates with _that_ set of biological functions.

After a brief but fierce internal struggle, Harold stops listening, although he keeps recording. He watches John's GPS data until it drifts away from the station. Perhaps John is using the bathroom as a dead drop point. That idea is rather neat and tidy, accounting for the silences and for John going out of his way, although not for the length of time John spends there. Verisimilitude, maybe, prompting him to stay longer, camouflage himself among men engaging in less straightforward exchanges.

On a whim, Harold makes for the bathroom himself. It's unremarkable - he's seen ones in much better shape, and in much worse. He quickly inspects the stalls for written notes: while the phone numbers scribbled on the wall may contain some code, Harold doubts it. The next to last cell gets a second glance. Somebody vandalized it, removing the toilet paper holder and cutting a hole through the wall. Then Harold halts, blinks, and looks at the hole again. Ah. It seems like somebody was enjoying themselves. He mentally wishes them luck and a good immune system. He puts a small camera on the wall, sets it to activate when John's phone comes near it. It occurs to him as he leaves that he could simply ask John, but that would be, well, incredibly embarrassing, for one thing: and if Harold is honest, it would feel like cheating.

The ping from the camera finds Harold figuratively elbow-deep in insurance forms for Wren's work. It's a relief to have something new to focus on. The footage is grainy, but John is unmistakable: Harold knows the way he moves too well to confuse him with anyone else. He vanishes into one stall, closing the door behind him. The restroom is empty but for him. Another man comes in a few minutes later, visibly nervous. He takes the stall next to John's. An informant? Harold turns on the audio. As before, he gets little enough, mostly static.

He's mostly back to focusing on the forms when a high, loud, "Oh _God_ _–_ " sounds, cutting off abruptly, as though the person emitting it remembered they were in a public place halfway through. Harold sits up in his chair, ramrod straight, ears heating up. It must be an act, it _must_ be... oh dear God, could John be torturing that man?

He stops himself on the cusp of activating John’s earpiece to make some pointed queries. The same voice as before groans and falls silent. There is a click and the hiss of a bar sliding. The stall door opens and the man who isn't John leaves. John himself leaves a few moments later.

The furious working of Harold's mind grinds to a stop. He knows as well as anyone that partial information is misleading, that sometimes seemingly obvious evidence in fact hints at a subtler, different story, but there is such a thing as belaboring the obvious: John regularly visits a public restroom to have sex with men, and that's all there is to it.

Harold turns off the sound and video, abruptly disgusted with himself. He pried into John's private business, and he has only himself to blame if he doesn't like what he found out. John is a capable adult. He can certainly see to his own safety.

A day later, it occurs to Harold to wonder whether, in fact, John could be trusted with his own safety. From a physical attack, yes, certainly. But there are other risks associated with such activities. Not to put too fine a point on it, Harold recalls neither the sound of a foil package being torn opennor of latex squeaking. Harold finds himself debating the merits of leaving a packet of condoms in John's apartment where John would be certain to stumble upon it.

He makes a conscious decision not to think about this any further. It's none of his business, and John won't thank him for interfering.

He ends up doing it anyway.

\--

_John drops the apartment keys into a bowl by the door and turns on the light in the kitchen. He pauses, then returns to the living room. There's something waiting on the table for him. John comes closer to inspect it. It is, oddly enough, a box of condoms._

_John considers that for a moment: he knows that there are people coming and going in the apartment, somebody who picks up his suits for dry cleaning, someone who cleans the apartment once a week. Occasionally there's food in the fridge that John doesn't remember making. Still, John can't imagine that any of Harold's helping hands would leave him a gift like this._

_It's nearly one in the morning, but John still touches his earpiece. “Finch?”_

_“Mr. Reese,” Harold says smoothly on the other end. John has a theory that Harold never actually sleeps, just goes into a standby resting state like a very sophisticated computer. “What can I do for you?”_

_John lets the box rattle in his hand. “Did you leave anything at the apartment for me?” There's tension coiling in his stomach, making him feel vaguely sick._

_“I occasionally take the liberty to have your pantry restocked. And you might have noticed a new suit, too, it arrived last week from – “_

_“Harold,” John says, voice low._

_Harold doesn't sound impressed. “What you do in your free time is your business, obviously,” Harold says, and for the first time, John realizes that Harold sounds pissed. “But a little precaution might go a long way.”_

_John feels a rush of blood to the head at the idea that Harold has been watching him disappear into the men's bathroom at the train station, figuring the details out by himself. John has obviously considered the possibility: he knows that Harold is keeping tabs on him, and if he checks John's location regularly, he must have noticed where John spends a lot of his time._

_“Thanks for your concern, Harold,” John drawls. He opens a random drawer and lets the box fall inside. “But as you said, my business.”_

_There's silence on the line. John can almost see Harold pressing his lips together in frustration._

_“You should be more careful, Mr. Reese. Your services are still needed.”_

_“Good night, Harold,” John says._

_“Good night, Mr. Reese,” Harold's voice says through the earpiece._

_John sits down with a bottle of Scotch and a glass at the kitchen table and stares at it for half an hour before putting it back into the cupboard and going to bed. He leaves the blinds open, but turns away from the security camera watching the street outside._

\--

_The next time happens after John catches Harold looking at a picture of Grace on his screen. Harold quickly closes the window when John comes walking in, but John sees it anyway, the flash of red hair and a gentle smile._

_John walks into Grand Central Terminal the same evening with swift steps and locks himself into the bathroom stall. He doesn't have to wait for too long until the door opens and footsteps are approaching. It's for the better, really: John needs some release, and if he doesn't find it here, he might have to go and punch a wall instead._

\--

 _This is stupid,_ Harold thinks, making his way stiffly through Grand Central Terminal once again. He hangs aside, feeling conspicuous and out of place, until his phone buzzes, signaling that John has entered the restroom. Harold hurries in afterwards. He's not sure what he'll do if the next to last stall will be occupied. It's not, but that leaves Harold in the awkward position of having to decide what to do now that it isn't. He can't wait for too long. Somebody will come eventually, or John will lose patience and leave. And won't that be an absolutely delightful encounter?

The restroom door moves. Harold, not quite in a fit of panic, moves into the stall next to John and closes the door behind him. His own breath echos loudly in the small space.

John's raspy voice sounds after a minute or two. "New to this? Need instructions?"

Harold swallows the _Certainly not_ on the tip of his tongue. It would go against his promise not to lie to John, for one thing, not to mention immediately give him away.

From another stall, not the one John is occupying, emanate slick sounds of flesh on flesh. Harold wonders what's going on there, a little uneasy. He'll feel better when John puts his member through the hole in the wall. Then, at least, Harold will be able to see whether John is using protection.

\--

_John sighs. There's no response: probably John has scared him off already. "I can't suck your cock if you don't take off your pants, you know."_

_There's silence on the other end. Then John can hear someone undressing, the other guy taking a few small steps until he's pressed up against the wall. John resists the temptation to give him a slow clap applause; the guy seems freaked out enough as it is, judging by the amount of time he's taking. Usually, guys can't wait to get out of their pants as soon as they know that there's a warm mouth waiting on the other side._

\--

Harold's mind is numb with shock. He's soft, and he feels self-conscious pressing up to the hole in the wall, old and worn and unappealing.

If John is displeased by this, or the fact that Harold hasn't put a condom on, he doesn't let that get in the way of sucking Harold's cock. The heat of it is shocking enough that Harold forgets himself and makes a small sound, too choked - he hopes - to be identifiable. He presses his cheek against the wall, his eyes falling helplessly shut.

What he wouldn't do to be able to thrust properly, without this wall and the wretched state of his spine. Something in the very back of his mind is screaming objections; Harold is too far gone to listen to it, lost in the way John drinks him in like nectar.

Soon it's over, John pulling off a bare moment before Harold spills. John strokes him through it with gun-calloused hands, capable and arousing. Harold makes another sound as he comes, but he trusts John doesn't recognize him. He scarcely recognizes himself.

\--

_After the guy comes and pulls back to tuck himself back in, there are retreating steps and the sound of the door falling shut over the noise outside. John closes the lid of the toilet and sits down on the cool porcelain. Now that he's alone, he thinks of Harold again, the longing expression on his face, the guilt in his eyes when John came in and caught him. Like Harold was doing something shameful, yearning for a life he had to leave behind._

_John sighs. He unbuckles and unzips, strokes himself through his underwear. He still has the taste of skin in his mouth, which helps. He hasn't really been intimate with a guy in any other context than a quick fuck in a back alley or a perfunctory one-night stand, and he doesn’t want to examine the fact too closely that he performs these exchanges with men only. He can’t decide if he’s trying to forget Jessica’s lovely, soft body under his or because he craves something else, something that he can’t quite bring himself to name. Despite the recent lack of physical contact in his life, John can still find some images that work for him: a smile with just the right edge to it, somebody gripping his hair tightly, pushing him down, the low noises strangers make when he gets on his knees for them._

_He pulls his cock out, touching himself for real. John never thinks of Jessica when he does this: it was the last time he felt something during sex, and it seems wrong to use her like that, like sacrilege. If John is feeling especially miserable, he lets himself think of Harold. There is the neatness of Harold's suit, tidy rows of buttons, perfectly folded pocket squares. Harold's dissatisfied expression, the way he frowns at the screen, annoyed. The way he says "Mr. Reese“ over the earpiece._

_John shudders, tugging at his cock. He's cold and aching but this is good, the rush of blood and endorphins is something, at least. He closes his eyes. He tries not to think about Harold, and still he does._

–-

Harold can't help but let some of the growing alarm he felt during the last weeks trickle out when John nearly allows a number to _stab_ him.

"Won't you please take _some_ consideration for your well being?" Harold blurted out over the comm before he even finished the thought. He can still hear the sounds of the fight, grunting and the clattering of the knife and a few dull, thudding noises that Harold doesn't want to think about. John gives a sarcastic reply, but manages to get the upper hand soon enough. Admittedly, Harold's timing may not have been the best. Later, in the library, John is rolling his eyes while Harold stitches him up. "He also tore my jacket, Harold, you gonna bitch about that too?" "Your jacket," Harold says coldly, "is replaceable. You are not." He dabs iodine on John's injuries, perhaps a little harder than necessary. John stiffens under Harold's touch, and makes his escape swiftly, though Harold can't for the life of him figure what he said to provoke that reaction.

–-

_John doesn't intend to go back so soon. Then again, he didn't expect Harold to start lecturing him about taking unnecessary risks in the middle of a knife fight, either: John was ducking a knife to the liver by rolling to the side and twisting his attacker's arm behind his back when Harold pointed out that he was being reckless. “This is extremely helpful, Harold,” John said, still struggling with his attacker, kicking the knife away where it had clattered onto the floor._

_John locks himself in the stall and waits for only a few minutes before someone comes in and enters the stall next to him, undressing swiftly. John kneels, thrumming his hand against the wall impatiently. It's an addiction in itself, he thinks, like the taste of alcohol on his tongue: he knows that it won't make him feel better for long, won’t dull the ache in chest for longer than a few minutes. After, he’s likely to feel even worse. But there is a reason that John is the one sliding down to the floor for each and every one of these encounters: kneeling is a sign of penance._

–-

If following John into the bathroom once was foolish, twice is surely unforgiveable. And yet, Harold does. John has no way of knowing who is in the stall next to his. No way, if Harold is willing to be crude, for John to know whose cock he was sucking. Certainly nobody has made John any guarantees that it _wouldn't_ be Harold taking his pleasure with John's mouth. Harold squares his shoulders while walking down Grand Central Station.

He knows he's rationalizing, he _knows_ , just as certainly as he does every time he tries to make himself finally cut off all contact with Grace. And every time, his resolve fails. Whenever he comes close to making the final decision, his mind brings up all the awful things that might happen to Grace when he can't protect her. He's taken to looking at the one picture he kept to convince himself to let go. It hasn't been very effective so far.

As for his present betrayal of John’s trust, his abuse of John’s vulnerability, Harold can't even regret it as much as he should. At least he knows John won't contact anything unpleasant from him.

Harold pushes open the door to the restroom, his hands clammy with sweat. Despite every denial he can muster, oh, he wants it again. All of it: John's hot, skilled mouth; his familiar, deft hands; and perhaps more than everything, the knowledge that John is safely receiving whatever it is that drove him to his knees on a restroom floor to begin with. Whatever else might happen today, the last thing John needs is another shot at blood-borne diseases.

He enters the stall next to John's with a horrible sense of _Déjà-vu_. He undresses swiftly, one hand pressed against the door for support, his heart beating so fast that it's almost painful. To his shame, Harold is hard, eager: he doesn't wait for John to extend an invitation, this time.

–-

_The cock that pushes through the hole is hard, and the guy on the other side makes a little, high-pitched whine when John closes his hand around it. John frowns, inspecting the head._

_“Do you come here often?” John drawls, curious to see if the guy will pick up on the terrible double entendre. There is no answer from the other side except for the way the man's breathing speeds up._

_“It's just that I feel we've, uh, met before,” John says. He leans in to suck the tip of the cock into his mouth, and the man on the other side makes a helpless noise._

_John is pretty sure it's the same guy from two weeks back, the one who took so much time undressing. John pulls off and strokes his thumb over the head. “Nothing wrong with that, I just thought I'd ask.”_

_With that, John bends down and sucks the guy's cock into his mouth, drawing a long wail from him. John takes him in deeper, relaxing at the mindlessness of the task. He isn't hard or even particularly interested, but it still feels good: a familiar ache._

–-

Even through the pleasurable haze of being fellated, a thought penetrates: _Something is different_.Another moment of beautiful suction passes before Harold pieces it together. Before, the flimsy partition between the stalls shook with both Harold’s movements and John's on the opposite side.

This time, there is only the motion Harold brings when he helplessly ruts into John's mouth. John is still. A pack of panicked thoughts flit through Harold's mind: _He's hurt. He's having flashbacks._ And, perhaps worst: _He's not enjoying this at all, merely enduring it because he won't say no._

That makes him call out, a reflexive response he hasn't been able to eliminate even when John was repeatedly cross with him for interference. "John?"

In the stillness that follows, Harold realizes the grave depth of his mistake.

\--

_He gets into a good rhythm just as the guy on the other side chokes out a name: John._

_John freezes. He'd recognize that voice anywhere. He lets the cock slip out of his mouth and sits back on his heels, his heart racing in his chest. Fuck. Fuck._

_For a moment, John is certain that he has imagined hearing his own name from the other side in Harold's voice, but then he hears it again._

_“I have an explanation,” Harold says, voice muffled through the partition. John mentally rewinds to the noises he heard, the whines and groans and the desperate, gulping breaths. This is the way Harold sounds when he's turned on, when he's being pleasured, when he comes._

_John is suddenly, painfully hard, so feverishly aroused that his hands are shaking with it. Before Harold can say anything else, John leans forward and takes the cock – Harold's cock – into his mouth again._

_“Oh,” Harold says, sounding hilariously surprised. John pulls off to close a hand around him and say: “Look, if you have any objections to his, now's the time to let me know.”_

_Harold clears his throat. “I do, in fact.”_

_John stops touching him. He feels like somebody shocked him with a kettle prod. Harold pulls back and hastily zips himself back up, judging by the noises John hears, before the door creaks._

_John kneels numbly on the floor, his head spinning. There is a knock against the door of his stall._

_“Open the door, Mr. Reese,” Harold says. He sounds so very much like himself that John wants to laugh: Harold isn't exactly the type to disappear into a public restroom to get blown by strangers. Which also means... whatever reason brought Harold here had something to do with John._

_John stiffly gets to his feet and unlocks the door. Harold steps in quickly, closing the door and sliding the lock shut. He looks disheveled: his shirttails are only halfway tucked into his pants, his fly is gaping open, revealing the erection tenting his underwear. His cheeks are flushed, and he wets his lips before he speaks._

_“I didn't mean to take advantage of you when I came here,” he says. “I merely wanted to see for myself what would drive you to... seek out the company of strangers, and in such a place, no less.” Harold eyes their surroundings with obvious disgust. His gaze strays to John's body then, all the way down to his crotch. There is no way he could miss how aroused John is._

_“Now that you know that I was on the other side, I fully understand if you don't want to move any further,” Harold says. “And I can't say that this place is setting the mood very well, there is probably an abundance of germs and other health hazards spread over every single surface –”_

_“What are you saying, Harold?” John asks, impatiently. What he wants is to get Harold's cock back into his mouth, make it really, really good, see Harold's reactions, feel the fabric of Harold's suit under his hands. He's so greedy for connection, for touch, that it makes him dizzy. And this is Harold, who wears a different pocket square every day, who sits at this computer and rolls his eyes at badly written code, prim and uptight in his three-piece. John wants to suck his cock until he's falling to pieces in front of him._

_Harold takes a shaky breath. “John, I would very much like to take this to a more sanitary and appealing environment, but I am very close, and I do not think –”_

_He squirms when John steps closer and slips a hand through his open fly to touch Harold through the fabric. “You want me to,” John says, exhilarated, gleeful. “You came back because you wanted me to do this for you.”_

_“Yes,” Harold says, helplessly. His hands come up to tighten in the fabric of John's sleeves. “I didn't realize that I wanted it, at first, I was only concerned about your well-being, but you are.” Harold looks frustrated, like he can't find the right words. “I would have liked to do this under different circumstances, maybe reciprocate by going on my knees for you –”_

_John has stopped listening. He slides to his knees and takes Harold's cock out, swallowing him down greedily. Harold is grasping at the wall for purchase, whimpering._

_John pulls off, looking up at him from under his lashes. “Pull my hair,” he says, his voice throaty and rough. Harold doesn't move: he just blinks at John like he's having a hallucination, then he draws in a sharp breath and awkwardly lowers himself to his knees. “Mr. Reese.”_

_"It's okay, Harold, I want to," John says, with a shaky smile. "Just let me do this, I'll make it really good for you," John says, his hand on Harold's arm, trying to reassure him. The position can't possibly be comfortable for Harold, not to mention his objections to the environment they're in._

_"I'm sure you would," Harold says._

_"Then what's the problem?" John frowns. Harold seemed to be enjoying himself more when there was a wall separating them. When he couldn't see John's face._

_"What made you come here today?" Harold says._

_John freezes. He carefully removes his hand from Harold's arm. "What do you _think_?" John asks, the words coming out ugly, sharp._

_"I think that you care too little for your own safety. I assumed when I came here that you took your pleasure in men's mouths, and that you used adequate protection. The risks you face in the receiving position are much greater. You take risks, John," Harold says, “but only rarely such foolish, unnecessary ones, and only with yourself at risk. That worries me considerably."_

_"So what is this, some kind of sex ed class?" John has balled his hand into a fist without realizing it, but he is beyond caring if Harold figures out that he is upset. “You came here to, what – tell me that I'm being irresponsible? To give me another lecture? Because it seemed to me last time that you were in the stall next to me because you wanted to get off.” Harold looks like John struck him, but John is far from done. “And frankly, what kind of risks I take in my time off is none of your concern. I'm not an ex-fiancée you get to spy on to feel less guilty.”_

_Harold blinks. Stiffly, he says, "I suppose I deserved that." He rises to his feet. "But as you already correctly accused me of spying, I will disabuse you of the notion that I was in there to _get off_ , as you say. I merely thought that since you seemed interested in sucking cock, I'd provide you with one that was disease- free."_

_John feels like suddenly his rib cage has shrunk several sizes. He can't look at Harold's face, so he focuses on the sharpie drawings on the wall. The door closes, and John can hear footsteps moving away from him. “It's what I can get.” John looks up. He doesn't hear the door close, but maybe Harold is gone anyway._

–-

A better man than Harold would have used this as a sign to cease his monitoring of Mr. Reese. A better man than Harold would likely not have been in this position to begin with.

He continues watching. Harold has a second app now. It uses John's phone to bluejack those of the men he convenes with and it monitors their calls, texts and emails for certain keywords, most importantly _positive_.

It's not much, but it's what Harold can do under the circumstances. He also does what he can to derail these clandestine encounters, feeling surprisingly little remorse. If John won't take care of himself, he can't expect Harold not to pick up the slack. Their mission, after all, is paramount.

–-

_Harold doesn't stop interfering. Every time John visits the restroom, he keeps waiting for his phone to buzz, for the person on the other side to get a text message, a call, to - in one memorable instance - get literally dragged away by an enraged spouse. Every single time, John goes home without as much as having touched someone else's skin. He goes to a bar to find a stranger to take home, his hands shaking with something that he can't name, but it is the same thing: Harold's invisible intervention makes certain John goes home alone._

_There is a hunger settling into John's stomach, a raw need. Sucking off strangers wasn't helping much, but at least it was an improvement over the silence of his apartment, the silence inside of his own head. John half-wishes that Kara were still in his life, kicking his ass during sparring sessions and pinning him to the walls of hotel rooms, her hands leaving bruises on his wrists, his throat._

_Then, one day, Harold sends him an email with a file attached: a name and address along with a photo of a reasonably attractive guy. The attachment is a table of clean lab results. The email mentions a time and a place to meet._

_“I have arranged a meeting for you after taking the necessary precautions,” Harold says as soon as John turns on the earpiece._

_“You've found me someone to fuck?” John spits, half disbelief, half anger._

_If anything, Harold's tone sounds even more neutral than usual. "There's nothing about Mr. Greene that you should find objectionable," he says. "Would you suck his cock?" John asks._

_"I would honestly rather suck yours,” Harold's voice says in John's ear._

_"There's no need to be hurtful," John says, a beat too late, a note too cheerful._

_"I didn't mean it to be disparaging," Harold says._

_John severs the connection and deletes the email._

_–-_

_He jerks off furiously that night, replaying Harold's words over and over in his head. John doesn't intend to draw it out: he needs release, to open a pressure valve. It's not about pleasure as much as necessity, and he roughly shoves down his pants and lies down on his bed, gripping his cock._

_John has been getting hard in the hopes of a successful encounter throughout the entire day, only to be left with a hollow ache every time Harold decided to intervene. He opens his drawer and rummages around for lube. He has half a mind to do it without, lick his finger and fuck himself with it, but he will be even more miserable the next day if he makes himself sore._

_His cock is throbbing, hard and hot in his hand. John can't settle on an image: there is a series of nameless, faceless strangers in his mind, their moans and grunts all sounding the same to him. The next thing his mind supplies is an image of Harold, and John groans in desperation. He can't think about that, not _now_ , not when he's trying to find some release. It's bad enough that he's getting taunted with what he can't have every time that he walks into the library: Harold's capable, gentle hands, his soft-looking lips. If only John had known that it was him at the restroom, he would have committed every second to memory: Harold standing in front of him with his pants undone, flushed and excited. The way his cock felt through the fabric of his underwear, the weight of it in John's hand._

_John finds a sweet spot and moves to add another finger. The stretch is too much, too soon, but he doesn't care: he is jerking himself with a tight grip on his erection, setting a punishing pace._

_John carefully avoids thinking about all the things Harold said to him and focuses instead of the noises he made, before: the surprised gasp, the high-pitched noise when John took him into his mouth, and oh, the taste of him; now that John knows, it's impossible not to think about that._

_John makes a frustrated sound, throwing his head back. He is desperate to come, but his body won't cooperate. John removes his fingers and digs around in the drawer again until he finds what he is looking for. He adds lube and turns on the vibration on the toy before taking it in hand and pushing it against his entrance. His cock leaks precome when John pushes the vibrator in. The head of it is blunt and cool, and John exhales at the stretch. It's not quite painful, but it's not exactly pleasant, either. He is still jerking himself off with a half-hearted grip, frustrated when the discomfort makes the possibility of orgasm seem even more distant than before._

\--

Harold doesn't __mean__ to watch: he simply checks the video feed to see if John is alright, to make sure that he isn’t off indulging in some new irresponsible habit.

Admittedly, even if John is, intervening would probably do more harm than good. Even so: in for a penny, in for a pound, and Harold would give away a considerable portion of his fortune if he thought it could help John find a measure of peace.

The video feed comes on and Harold spots John on the bed. It takes a second for the image to sharpen and come into focus, and then Harold sees John, naked and sweating, holding a toy between his legs that he slowly inserts into his ass.

Harold isn't ashamed of the whimper he emits at seeing John fuck himself with the toy. Stronger men would break at the sight. The cameras he has in John's apartment are good enough to show the sweat beading on his upper lip, the way his eyes roll to show only the whites for one brief moment.

Once the searing white heat of the very idea fades, though, Harold frowns at the screen. John is taking the toy much too fast, using inadequate lubrication.

There is no excuse, none, except that he's already transgressed on every line. His hand has snuck inside his fly when he was focused on John, not quite rubbing but in clear violation of the spirit of the rules he set himself. "Mr. Reese," Harold says through the earpiece, "stop."

The way John freezes at once is both startling and deeply satisfying.

"Pull the toy out," Harold says, amazed when John not only fails to object, but _obeys_. "Not all the way. Go very slowly. Add lubrication - no, more than that. Yes, still more... alright, that should do." Harold sounds odd to himself, distant and formal, as though he weren’t on the verge of spilling into his silk boxers.

\--

_John is panting by now, sweat running over his temples. He is desperate to get off, to feel something else than the emptiness in his chest._

_"Stop," Harold says again once John has pushed a bit more of the toy inside himself._

_John whimpers at the sound of Harold's voice in his ear: so close, as though Harold is right there with him, guiding his hand._

_"Go on, slowly." Harold emphasizes the word, and adds, "Stop," when John starts picking up the pace again._

_John wants to push ahead, find a rhythm that will get him off, but Harold won't let him, makes him wait every time that John gets close. John wants to touch his cock, pinch his nipples, but he is helpless to do anything but what Harold tells him to._

\--

"Let your body adjust." Harold says. "Alright. Now take more."

The thrill Harold feels isn't entirely sexual. All of it is wrapped up in John's blissful, glazed expression. Slowly, slowly, John's body opens up to him like a flower in the sun. "Take your hand off your cock," Harold says softly, blinking in disbelief when John does exactly that. "Turn on the vibration."

John's hips buckle and thrust when he does as Harold told him, an image that sears itself into permanent memory.

\--

_Moving this slowly is sheer torture. John is panting open-mouthed, clenching around the toy, but he still does what he's told, stilling when Harold asks him to. He pushes the toy in deeper when Harold wants him to, and this time his body welcomes it, relaxing into the motion. John gasps in both pleasure and disbelief._

_John doesn't think anymore, just blindly follows along. He flicks on the vibration and nearly arches off the bed, letting Harold hear all the noises he can't contain. He lets his knees fall open, spreading himself wide open. Harold's watching, John realizes for the first time, actually understanding the implication: Harold is seeing John pleasure himself, directing him, making sure that John feels good._

_"Harold," John manages. His voice sounds hoarse, pleading. He is still holding on to the toy, his whole body shaking._

_"John," Harold says, "do you think you could come for me?"_

_John whimpers loudly, an animal noise. The toy is seated firmly inside of him, stretching him open. He isn't touching himself, his neglected cock throbbing and twitching at the stimulation. John's hips thrust rhythmically, even though there is nothing to rub off against. “I want to,” he bites out, shuddering when the movement of his hips makes the toy shift slightly, pressing up against just the right spot. He feels his orgasm approaching, perched right on the edge. “Wanna be good for you,” he adds, half delirious._

_There are noises in the earpiece that John can't quite place, but he is too out of it to care. He clenches around the toy, his hips pumping fruitlessly, one hand gripping the sheets._

_“Use your hand to stroke yourself,” Harold says, suddenly. He sounds wrecked. John can hear the rustling of clothes over the line. His brain is foggy and slow, but after a moment, John finally catches up: Harold's careful breathing, the suspicious sounds, the strain in his voice._

_“Harold,” John says, drawing the word out until it sounds like a moan. There is silence on the line. “What are you doing?” John asks._

_John wraps his hand around his cock again and strokes himself. Harold makes a noise that John recognizes from the restroom, a small, beautiful gasp. “I realize that this is very inappropriate and that I am violating your boundaries in the worst possible –”_

_John throws his head back and moans, pushing up into his hand. He is close, so close, he doesn't know if he can take the frustration of another ruined orgasm. “Harold, please,” he says._

_“Of course, yes, anything,” Harold says, sounding breathless and confused. Then he clears his throat and says: “I am touching myself, thinking about the things I want to do to you.”_

_John rolls onto his stomach, thrusting against the sheets, into his own slick grip._

_“John,” Harold chokes out over the earpiece, and that does it, John shudders and spills into his hand, makes a mess of the sheets. He comes and comes, shuddering when the toy keeps buzzing inside him._

_John loses track of time for a while. “Turn the toy off and carefully remove it,” Harold says after what feels like days._

_John reaches around to flick the switch off and does as he's told. He immediately misses the feeling of being filled up, but he puts the toy aside anyway. “Did you,” John starts, before he can decide if it is a good decision or not, “Did you finish?”_

_The line is quiet for a moment. “No,” Harold admits. “Which is for the better, since I have already acted irresponsibly enough today.”_

_John turns onto his back. There is come on his cock and stomach, and John spreads his legs to make sure that Harold gets an excellent view. “Use your hand to stroke yourself,” John says. Harold makes a meek noise of protest, but then he sighs, the chair creaking as if Harold has leaned back._

_John regrets that he doesn't have a visual to go with the earpiece connection, but the sounds he hears are almost enough: he can imagine Harold sitting in his chair in front of his work station, slipping a hand into his underwear to palm his cock._

_“Did you mean it?” John asks. His own spent cock is stirring at the sound of flesh on flesh, Harold jerking himself off. “When you said that you would suck my cock?”_

_Harold makes a weak noise, as if he can't be bothered to masturbate and hold a line of conversation at the same time. “Yes, John, I would very much like to do that, oh,” he says. John can hear his rhythm speeding up, his breathing going quicker._

_“I didn't think that you'd want this,” John says. What he means is “I didn't think that you'd want me”, but he isn't brave enough or foolish enough to say that._

_Harold snorts. “Did you consider,” he says, his words punctuated by greedy gulps of breath, “To simply ask me if I would like to sleep with you, instead of going off to, ah. Have high-risk sex with strangers in public restrooms?”_

_There is a little voice in the back of John's head that tells him that he could have done much better if he had wanted to keep his activities secret from Harold: in fact, if he's being completely honest, John has made absolutely sure that Harold would notice at some point._

_“Sometimes I want to be touched,” John says, listening to Harold's shuddering exhale over the line. “But I can't let people touch me, not like I want them to.”_

_Harold makes a soft, broken noise. “Let me touch you,” he says, “you won't endanger me, you won't have to lie, I'm right here –“ He groans, cursing softly._

_“Yeah, that's it,” John mutters. “God, I want to suck you off and see your face while I do it, I want you to fuck me, put your hands all over me.”_

_Harold makes a noise like a sob. The sounds on the line die down except for his heavy breathing._

_John closes his eyes and lets himself drift off for a while. He wants to go to the library, to peel away every layer of Harold's suit, every last secret. He wants to taste his skin without the bitter tang of regret._

_Finally, Harold speaks again. “Well, it was not one of my favorite suits anyway.” John laughs at that, touching his hand to the earpiece like a caress. For a moment, he is floating in a sea of possibilities, hazy and directionless, but then Harold speaks again and everything comes into focus._

_“John? Please come home now,” he says, and John is helpless to do anything else but obey._

 

_– fin_


End file.
